Rebecca Hurtado
POSTCARD POEM TO A BELOVED AFTER MY HYSTERECTOMY
In Oak Island Beach Emporium the June sun catches plastic keychains and multicolor rays bake the hermit crabs until they smell. On sale and mostly dead, the survivors slow motion scuttle. Painted up like bouncy balls they forage terrarium rubble, and their claws skin the nearest neon shell. On the phone last night we joked that the doctors should let us keep it. And as heat hit my body in waves, I discovered memories come with flashes too—recalled the summer we spent pushing away covers to cool sweat off sticky skin, saw myself scouring a gift shop, postcard fanning the stench away. Maybe a jar? The tumor floating in formaldehyde like a shark trapped in resin. And when I asked why not preserve my uterus as our souvenir, you said, Because it's not about shields, it's about enemies. Not how my uterus held the cancer at bay, its teeth lapping up tendons, but what invaded it. So this morning, I pried into a poem I wrote to you long before my tan faded and scars skipped across my belly like a stone. I searched for the softest spot to insert our enemy, scraped at the lining to make room. And while peeling away the glossy layers, I thought of our cannibal crabs—how their legs embraced. If you were here it would be easier to pretend. Yes, I bet you could convince me they’re just kissing.
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